


Chase

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [72]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, M/M, Roleplay, oops i made another sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5976445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is coming for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chase

_Run.  
_

_Run.  
_

_Run._

The word is a litany, the rhythm his pounding feet make on the dark earth. _  
_

_Run.  
_

_Run.  
_

_Run._

His heart is an unsteady tattoo against his ribs. He thinks he can hear it chasing him. His lungs heave and his breath rasps like a file. He is sobbing, he knows, but he can't stop it any more than he can the tears running down his face and the terror clutching at his chest. The forest around him is a weaving pattern of dark and light. Above him, through gaps in the close trees, moonlight trickles in, creating splashes of brightness that waver and dance through tear-blurred eyes.

More than once he stumbles and falls or runs headlong into a sudden tree, it's rough bark scraping hands and face and expelling precious breath like a blow. He runs on because he has to, because it is behind her and it will kill him if it catches him.

The tree comes out of nowhere and he falls with a cry to the ground, rolling instinctively to avoid landing on his knee, the throbbing pain of the old injury starting to grow numb. He lies on his side, unable to move, his breath and his heart uncertain counterparts to the same pattern. He can feel the night around him, the forest stretching like a hand, and he’s trapped, just another animal in its grasp. Panic is keeping him blind, terror stops his ears. All he is aware of is his own heart, his own breath, and the living, breathing forest around him and the thing that it hides.

He almost stays where he is. The certainty that it is coming is so strong in him that he almost believes he will open his eyes and see it crouched above him. He shudders and whimpers and nearly lacks the courage to open his eyes. Only his pride makes him do it, and taking a breath he tears them wide and stares around him.

He is alone in the woods with nothing but silence and the night.

_“John.”_

He freezes and the sound of relief in his throat is choked off. He can’t see it. He can’t see anything.

_“John. Run, John. Run away!”_

And with a cry he is scrambling upwards, fingers scrabbling at loose ground and tree roots and he dives forward but he’s gone too far, pushed too hard, and his knee gives out sending him sprawling once more. And then it’s too late because it’s on him, the weight landing on his back and he gives a choked scream as it sends him into the dirt, face pressed into the dead leaves and limbs helpless under its heat.

_“John, I told you to run.”_

“Please. _Please.”_

_“Too late.”_

And there are teeth, snapping at the back of his neck and finger nails scraping at his flesh, dragging at the edges of his clothes and catching at his bare skin.

He’d been warned. Sherlock had warned him. But he hadn’t listened.

He bucks his body, trying to gain some traction, trying to throw the weight off of him, but he can’t get his arms under him and even if he could he can’t run any more, his left leg radiating a cold numbness from its centre that leaves him more frightened than anything else. He bucks his body anyway, because there’s nothing else he can do, and there’s a chuckle, deep and savage and teeth sharp at the nape of his neck. He arches back into it and sobs and a hot wet tongue laves at the ruined flesh.

 _“Fight me,”_ it says, and John doesn’t know if he can.

When the cold fingers tug at the waist of his trousers and pants he starts to cry again, twisting wildly in the dirt, but the weight on his back is too much and all that happens is the sudden sharp pain of long nails biting into the flesh of his buttocks and he whimpers, his hips thrusting back into that grip, his body responding against his will. He cries out and it’s desperate and moaning and John can taste the terror in the blood on his tongue.

 _“Fight me!”_ it snarls and John tries, he tries, but he’s so tired, his heart beating so hard. He writhes weakly in the dirt and can do nothing more than whine when he feels the weight on his back shifting slightly and two hands gripping hard pull the cheeks of his buttocks apart and _oh god_ something is there, right there, and John can feel it wet and hot against his entrance.

“Please!” he cries.

 _“Beg me,”_ the voice snarls.

“Please, please, please please please _pleasepleaseplease!”  
_

And the sudden growling cry of the thing on his back is a sound of triumph and its the only warning John has before something hard and hot and _big_ shoves forward into him, a single hard thrust that has John screaming because it _hurts,_ it’s too much and he can’t breathe, his throat blocked up with the pain and the stretch and the thing on his back doesn’t give him any time at all to get used to it, it is thrusting in and out, fucking him hard, and he’s writhing and crying, more animal than the savage thing on his back as it shoves into him and mates him into the forest floor.

 _“Werewolves mate for life, John,”_ the things growls against his neck as it pushes into his hole, as it fills him up and it feels like its entire weight has been thrust inside John, its entire presence suddenly inside him. _“I will fill you with my seed and you will grow round with my cubs in your belly.”_

“Please,” John manages to choke out and he can feel his traitor body, his cock trapped against the ground growing stiff and swollen, his hips pushing backwards to meet the agonising intrusion from behind, his body begging for more, for harder, for deeper. He tries not to imagine himself, belly large with monsters, but the vision is too much, it is all too much and suddenly he is coming, keening high and loud into the dark as the creature on his back howls its triumph to the trees and John can feel it, that sudden pulsing stretch as it comes inside him, buries itself in his body and plants its seed in his belly and John cries, whimpering and weak, nothing left of him as the thing collapses on his back and pants.

It seems like forever before John becomes aware again and when he does it’s the hot wet splay of a tongue on the back of his neck, gently licking the bloodied bite, that finally drags him back. John groans, not ready yet, not wanting to wake up and face the end of this.

“John?” says the voice.

John doesn’t say anything, just whimpers into the ground and squeezes his eyes shut tighter.

“John!” Sharper this time, and John forces his eyes open and twists his head enough that he can look behind him at the heavy weight still warm on his back.

“Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock’s face, peering at him with open concern, shows relief.

“Idiot,” he says. “Okay?”

“Amazing,” John manages to mumble before letting his eyes slip shut again, and on his back Sherlock laughs, a low rumbling chuckle that John can feel through his whole body and he feels the soft press of a kiss below his ear and John smiles.

“Told you you’d like the werewolf one,” Sherlock says.

**Author's Note:**

> as requested, this is meant to follow on from the vamplock prompt.


End file.
